


Sharper Than Knives Or Silence

by andromache



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Backstory, Canonical Levels of Violence, Case Fic, Co-workers, Gen, Guns, Isolation, Misses Clause Challenge, Mystery, mention of miscarriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2013-12-23
Packaged: 2018-01-05 17:03:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1096385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andromache/pseuds/andromache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While chasing a dangerous fugitive, Beth also begins chasing her past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sharper Than Knives Or Silence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singsongsung](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singsongsung/gifts).



> Thank you so much for the fantastic prompt, Singsongsung! I also adore Beth Childs, and am fascinated by the snippets of information we got on her in canon. Orphan Black is intriguing because Sarah's entry into the story happens after a ton of stuff has gone down. I love this show's _in media res_ style storytelling, and I tried to emulate that sort of ideal when attempting to tell the story of Beth's own discovery of the cloning conspiracy. I really wanted to explore the very beginning of the North American's clones' connection.
> 
> I had a lot of fun writing this, and I hope you have a great holiday season!
> 
> (Content warning note: In this story, Beth and Art are investigating a triple murder among family members. I don't get into graphic descriptions of the homicides, but I wanted to give everyone a heads up anyway.)

An urgent order brings Beth and Art to the scene of a suspected arson. Firefighters have eradicated the fire, but the suburban house is a pale, inhospitable shadow of its former glory. It’s now a skeleton of pallid wood beams, and an ashy black pit of debris. When Beth arrives, other cops are securing the area. The neighbors throng the streets, winter coats pulled over their pajamas. They whisper amongst themselves, their faces tight and worried. 

Beth breathes in a pungent mix of smoke and the scent of lighter fluid, and wants to gag. 

_Accidental fire, my ass_. 

“What an exciting way to start the day,” she mutters to Art. 

“Janis is here,” he replies, waving to the main coroner. “I have a feeling it’s about to get even more exciting.”

The two of them duck under bright yellow police tape. Despite crime scenes being home to violence and despair, there is something sacrosanct about them as well. It’s a world apart from the area just beyond its borders.

Beth’s gut screams that this is arson for the purpose of concealing something worse. This doesn’t exactly thrill her, given that it will complicate their lives. Fire has its weaknesses, however. It often leaves scorch marks that indicate the source of the blaze. And fire is _terrible_ at obliterating crucial things like bones and DNA. 

“Heard you two were put on this task. Congratulations.” Janis’s voice is pristine, deadpan. 

Beth hears car doors opening and slamming shut. The distinctive popping of heavy-duty cameras. She spies video cameras, and she knows that somewhere out there, her image is being broadcast in the 24/7 media cycle. Art and Beth just _look_ at one another. Once, while getting shitfaced in a bar, the two of them had cycled through unflattering names for the media. Ultimately, Art decided he preferred to call them vultures, while Beth claimed that they were more like maggots. 

“The Hartmanns were a family of four,” Janis says, “Mom, dad, and then two kids. But we’ve only found three bodies. The bodies were badly burnt, but we could still determine that they were shot in the back of the head, execution-style. We’ve sent the bullets and shell casings to the lab.” 

“Who’s missing?” Out of the corner of her eye, Beth sees body bags spread out in the backyard lawn. Whenever newspapers are tossed in front of a mailbox, they tend to be wrapped in plastic bags of the same hue.

“The mother. Elle Hartmann.” 

Beth can hear Art’s next words before he says them. During an investigation, they slip into an unbreakable lockstep, their motions and thoughts syncing up. Having one’s ideal partner cop was probably better than having a twin.

“Does the family have a gun?” Art has his hands in his pockets. 

“Yes. Registered to the mother.” Janis scowls. “And we can’t find either of them. Gun _or_ mother.” 

*

Beth and Art take to the streets. All the neighbors say the usual things that people often do during violent tragedy. The Hartmanns were such good people! Not an enemy in the world. Their two children were well behaved and loved. The teenaged daughter wanted to be an engineer, and the boy was always cracking jokes. Sometimes the husband and wife argued, but it was nothing out of the ordinary. No, the mother would absolutely never harm her offspring. Never. She loved those kids. 

At the same time, eyewitness accounts chip away at the idea that there was an unknown assailant. No one saw unknown cars pull up to the house. Some people cop to having had minor conflict with the parents, but each of them had airtight alibis for the night. 

“It’s official,” Art says, while he and Beth stand on the sidewalk, going through what they already know. (Not much.) “The Hartmanns all dropped dead for no reason.” 

“The bullets just fell from the sky and-” Beth’s phone began to ring. “Oh, wait a second…”

“Hello, is this officer Beth Childs?” The voice on the other end blurts out before any introduction can be made. The woman has an accent that makes Beth remember fidgeting in high school German class.

“Yes, this is detective Childs.” 

“I am not certain how to say this, my apologies.” The woman goes silent for so long that Beth would suspect a dropped connection. 

Beth cradles the phone closer to her cheek. She runs her unpainted nails over its scratches and grooves. These markings are, by now, are as distinct as any fingerprint. It’s an old phone, and she probably does need a new one. “Start with your name,” she says, in a sturdy, soothing voice. If this is a witness, she wants to create a foundation built on trust.

“Ahhh, yes. I am Katja Obinger. Please feel free to research my name. It might make my story sound convincing.” 

_‘Sound convincing.’ Interesting choice of words._

“I’m always watching the news, and coverage of the Hartmann murders has made its way over here. To Germany.” An haggard breath crackles over the line. “When I saw you standing there…” Her next words sound oddly rehearsed, as though she’s asked this before. “When I saw you there, I knew I had to call you and ask… if your mother conceived you in vitro?”

“What?” A shriek tears its way out of Beth. “Excuse me?” She walks a few paces away from Art. He watches this exchange, with a barely concealed concerns.

“I am sorry, that was a bit technical. I think in North America they often call it being a test tube baby?” 

“No. No, no, no. I got what you meant the first time.” Beth combs her fingers through her hair, before hardening her grip and pulling a bit on the strands. “Can’t say I like you digging into my background.” 

“That sounds like a confirmation to me. Then I suppose I should tell you we are clones-“

Beth starts to crack up, and immediately ends the call. Wishes she had been talking on a landline, because slamming the receiver down would be _so_ satisfying in this particular moment. 

Art is looking over at Beth. “What the hell, Childs?” 

“Waste of time.” She stomps ahead of him, on to the next house. “Apparently being a five minute celebrity brings out the nut jobs.” 

“Aren’t you lucky.”

*

They have dental records to identify the bodies, but the husband’s mother- the kid’s grandmother- insists on seeing the corpses anyway. Her heartrending sobs drive Beth straight from the morgue and back to the crime scene.

“The body placement is interesting,” Beth says, kneeling down, touching the tape outline with a careful hand. This was where the girl, Ava Hartmann, had fallen. This area had been the kitchen. The boy, Sean, had been killed in the foyer, while the husband had been died after coming in from the garage. 

Art consults his notes. “The daughter was still wearing the clothes she had been seen wearing at school. Even though neighbors called in the fire around 1 a.m.” 

Beth looks up at him from her crouching position. “So you’re thinking they were killed in the afternoon?” 

“Yes. Not to mention, what we know is not consistent with armed robbery at all.” 

Beth rises to her feet. Yes, he’s right. Robbery related murders were typically accidental, with bullets lodging somewhere in the front of the body. Being shot in the back of the head implied a bit more forethought. 

There was something else, too. “Judging by the placement of the bodies, the killer probably knew the family’s schedules, too.” 

“I agree.”

Beth and Art fall silent, in the face of all that implies. 

*

Home at last, home at last. 

“Christ, you look like you need a drink.” 

Sometimes being with Paul is like living with an assigned college roommate. They live parallel lives in the same space. Sometimes they stay up all hours of the night, getting drunk, talking about nothing in particular. Other times they are cordial but distant, avoiding conversation for days on end for no particular reason. They rarely have sex, and have never once talked about marriage.

Like any good roommate, Paul makes good on his observation by immediately making a beeline for their liquor cabinet. Beth hears him pulling the cap off her favorite drink.

Bless everything you choose to be,” Beth calls out, and peels off her shoes. Some women can’t relax once they’ve ditched their bras for the night. Beth respects that. For her part, her work was never done until she had tossed her high heels in the corner. 

She sits on the couch, and flexes her feet.

“It was kind of interesting seeing you on the news.” Paul’s voice echoed back to her. Their house was all sharp angles and empty space, and words tended to wander around aimlessly. “Even if the circumstances were…” 

“Less than ideal?” Beth hears the German woman’s voice. The word ‘clone’ is a discordant note in this otherwise relaxing environment. “Yeah, I think I’m already completely over being on display like that.” 

Paul has no answer for that. He just wanders over, hands her a drink. Beth swallows in a determined gulp, the liquor burning down her throat. Her eyelids droop, her limbs sink into the heavy languor of exhaustion, and the whole thing pisses her off. She’s pushed through weight training and marathons alike, and Beth is a huge fan of mind over matter. And yet, even her carefully maintained body will demand sleep if she pushes it too far. In that way she’s no different from anyone else.

“So, got any idea who killed them?”

You know I can’t talk about that right now, Paul.” Her voice is prickly, her hand on his forearm is gentle. Tender even. She rather liked this equilibrium, where she feed him bits and pieces of her gruesome life’s work. Every so often he returns the favor by whispering the reader’s digest version of life on the battlefield. If you have things you’d rather forget, it’s better to shack up with someone in the same boat.

“Thought I’d try my luck. But I don’t mind being your bartender” Paul says, laughing a bit, as she finished off the last dregs of her drink. “You sleeping out here?”

Beth lies on her side, settling into their couch. Since it seems to be an inevitability, she’s going to let herself rest during these handful of hours off work. She closes her eyes, distantly aware of the warmth of Paul’s hand on her head. 

“Yeah. I have to be back at work in a few hours. And, well…” The world goes blurry. “I can’t ever afford to get too comfortable.”

*

In a murder investigation, victimology is as crucial as profiling the perpetrator. Each time, Beth fastidiously pulls together a profile of the deceased; their personality, potential criminal record, and the last few hours of their lives. Until she does this, formulating a motive for their demise is as useful as trying to hold smoke in the palm of her hand. 

Because the Hartmann case has three victims, it complicates the hypothetical murder scenario threefold. Beth loves that, almost as much as she hates it.

Today, she and Art look into the Hartmann kids. Construct itineraries of their typical days, while getting a better sense of their personalities. The girl was a teen, and the boy was in his last year of elementary school. Interviewing their teachers proves to be more fruitful than the earlier day’s work. One teacher mentions how the daughter seemed to throw herself into extracurricular activities, When asked about it, Ava would laugh and say she was avoiding home as much as possible. Other teachers say the boy would make offhanded remarks about his parents’ bad tempers. 

When she and Art grab a belated meal, the place is quiet; the lunch crowd has long since cleared out, and almost no one is looking for dinner just yet. 

Art’s face has been clouded over all day. The death of children always seems to hit him hard, even though he never admits as such. Beth values his compassion almost as much as she vales how it doesn’t cripple his productivity.

“ _Do_ you think she did it? The mother?” Beth asks.

“Can’t tell, yet.” Judging by the way his lips turn down, Art’s leaning in that direction. “Occam’s razor, though. Maybe there’s someone out there with a violent grudge against this family, who got into this area with raising any alarms with the neighborhood watch. Or maybe it’s some serial killer who just _happened_ to pick the house with a registered handgun, and he just happened to abduct the woman who owns the gun, and he just happened to make off with her _while_ setting fire to the house at the same time, and he just happened to possibly murder and dispose of her without anyone noticing a body yet, or…” 

“Or the mother killed them all, set the fire, and has managed to hide out so far.” It’s so much simpler to say, and that’s what makes it terrifying. Stranger-on-stranger crime is disconcertingly arbitrary, but there’s something far more unsettling about crimes committed between people who swear they love each other. 

Art’s grimace deepens, along with the glare in his eyes. “I’m gonna go pay the bill.” 

It leaves Beth with a few minutes to spare, and she fiddles around with her smart phone. She goes ahead and enters in Katja’s name (it takes a while to wrangle the correct spelling.) 

There is, indeed, a facebook account associated with that name. That’s not exactly a shock. There are a million variations on names, out there, and probably an even greater number of facebook accounts. More alarming is the _picture_ attached to that profile. Beth stares, open-mouthed, at the figure that looks exactly like her… if Beth was prone to bright, cherry-colored hair. Her first instinct is that someone out there is crazy good with photoshop. But there sure are a lot of photos, and the account is remarkably active. “Katja” posts links to cat videos, just like anyone else. She also has intense political debates with various college friends. At no point does anyone ask her why she has a fake picture.

If it is a troll account- and Beth isn’t ruling that out- then it is a _very_ good one. 

She turns the phone face down, just as Art returns. 

“Got a call from the precinct,” he says, looming over Beth. “They think they found the gun on the side of the freeway.” 

“Well, fuck.” She tosses some bills and coins onto the table, and rushes out the door with Art.

*

The pistol matches the weapon registered to Mrs. Hartmann. The bullets match what remained of the ballistics at the crime scene, and nearby there was a blanket consistent with fibers from the house. It was reasonable to assume that it had been used for a suppressor. 

Everything had been wiped of all fingerprints. The family’s car _had_ been missing from their garage and it was only a matter of time before someone spotted it. Weapons were easier to hide than vehicle.

Beth and Art decide to divide the case down the middle for the rest of the day. He grabs Angela Deangelis and returns to canvassing the neighborhood. Beth remains at the precinct, strategically placed to answer and log all potential leads. Every time someone calls in with an alleged sighting of Mrs. Hartmann, she takes pins and sticks them in a map of the city. Some are bound to be false leads, but if they get lucky these scraps of information will point them in a direction of travel anyway.

When an elderly man comes to the studio, identifies himself as a neighbor of the Hartmann, and hands her his surveillance tape… Well, she kind of wants to kiss him on the mouth. 

After several hours of staring at the footage, she begins to understand the retiree’s sheepish demeanor. Yes, the video shows the Hartmanns’ car driving away from the crime scene. There’s a clear shot of the license plate. However the camera had been pointing a bit too low, offering up a truncated image of the car. No amount of wishing will show the top half of the car. Nothing will show her _the identity of the driver_. Beth stares at the van’s spinning wheels for so long she wonders if she’s hypnotized herself.

Maybe that’s why, when phone rings again, playing its usual snippet of some Vivaldi song, she feels so damn lightheaded. Beth sees the unknown number, and screws her eyes shut. 

She presses pause on the video at the exact same time she answers the call. 

“Can’t believe you called again Katja.” 

“I understand why you hung up on me,” the woman says, all rueful self-deprecation. “I think I would have done the same were I in your shoes.” 

“Found your facebook today.” Beth rewinds the video, scouring the grainy footage for something. Anything. “ _That_ was interesting.” 

“I keep meaning to change the privacy levels on that…” Katja trails off. Laughs in the way people do when they want to paint over silences in the conversation. “Though maybe it was helpful in this case?” 

“Hmmmm. I don’t know about that.” Beth pauses the tape again, has an epiphany, and almost smacks herself in the forehead. The man had handed this thing over, telling her that he got images of the criminal fleeing the crime… But there was other footage on this tape. 

_Damn, Beth. Yes, you’re tired, but that’s not an excuse to be a complete idiot. ___

__“Detective Childs?”_ _

__Suddenly she wants stalker girl gone, gone, gone._ _

__“Look, you know damn well that I’m a police officer,” she snaps. “That means you must know I deal in hard evidence. Prove what you’re trying to say with DNA or a fingerprint or something.” She rattles off the address of a P.O. box she keeps for people to send her anonymous evidence. Let Katja make use of that… if she even could._ _

__She hears some paper rustling, and then Katja launches into a monologue. She rattles off intimate details of Beth’s medical history, her academic records. Things no stranger should no._ _

__“That’s a start,” Beth’s voice echoes back at her, hollow and thin. “But remember: hard evidence.” She hangs up on Katja for the second time, and presses rewind on the surveillance video._ _

__In the nine hours before the estimated times of death, only four figures can be seen entering the home. The camera only picks up on their lower bodies; two pairs of dress shoes, ballerina style shoes, and sneakers. Consistent with pictures she’s seen of the family, and their typical style of dress._ _

__Beth calls Art with her findings._ _

__“Doesn’t prevent someone from sneaking in through the back.”_ _

__They lapse into thoughtful, venomous silence. There was probably no way to look for forced entry now, with the house in its burnt stated._ _

__“Occam’s razor?” Beth says, echoing yesterday’s back at him._ _

*

__Art has an annoying tendency to watch out for her health Once again, he orders her to go sleep. This time, she doesn’t even bother to return to her home. She simply goes to her car out in the massive parking garage, and curls up on the back seat, with her boots still on._ _

__Beth keeps an extra outfit in her car, and toothpaste in her office desk, just for moments like this._ _

___She drifts off, unwillingly, full of apprehension, and has one of her rare dreams. She’s barreling after Mrs. Hartmann on the highway. When the police cars manage to circle the fugitive, Beth approaches the car. Blood leaks from the crack below the door, and when she pulls on the handle, smoke pours out. When she turns to speak to Art, all she sees is Katja._ _ _

__Beth’s eyes snap open, and she paws at the buttons on her dress shirt. The fabric is damp with sweat, and it clings to her collarbone. Her stomach lurches, as though she’s swallowed handfuls of sand._ _

__She’s not sleeping again tonight, no _thank_ you. _ _

__Beth feels her phone pressing against her hip, and examines it, distantly hoping she hasn’t accidentally butt dialed anyone. It’s 3:30 am; she’s got half an hour until Art’s curfew is up, and she needs to be doing _something_. All around her, parking garage is gray and gloomy, save for dull amber lights. Purgatory must look something like this._ _

__Much of the world is fast asleep or up to no good, but Beth’s mother is almost certainly preparing to head to work at the ER._ _

__While she waits for her mother to answer, Beth fiddles with the glove compartment, and manages to locate her bottle of vivarin. She swallows some of them, and laughs as she realizes she’s literally taking two and calling a doctor in the morning._ _

__“Well hello there, O prodigal daughter.” Naomi Childs doesn’t hide her surprise at hearing from her kid. Beth never calls during a time sensitive investigation._ _

__“Mom.” Somehow this is reminiscent of college, when she’d call her mother in order to screech about piles of work during finals. (By expending all her nervous energy on her mother, Beth subsequently gained a reputation for being stoic. Perhaps overly so.)_ _

__“Yeah, that’s me.” Beth hears a mechanical whirl. Evidently, her mother is grinding down some coffee beans. “Shouldn’t you be chasing after super-villains?”_ _

__“Oh, god, I wish. This case is such a bitch.” The exact images from Beth’s nightmare are melting away, sloughing off into obscurity. But Beth can still feel her dream self’s frustration and fear. “Though that’s all I can say about an ongoing investigation.” She takes on the prim, shuttered voice of a police officer on the news. Her mother recognizes the joke and starts to laugh._ _

__“Your fault for choosing a career you can’t even talk about.” Beth isn’t fooled. Not for a second. When Beth was sworn in to the police force, her mother had been there, in her perfectly pressed suit, the pride in her smile so bright it had been painful to see._ _

__Somehow that memory makes Katja’s claims seem weak. Ridiculous._ _

__“That reminds me, I do have to ask you something related to my current case.”_ _

__“I have an alibi.”_ _

__“Okay,” Beth says, ignoring that. “It’s kind of a weird question, but trust me it’s relevant. Sort of.” She chews the inside of her cheek._ _

__“Well?”_ _

__“So… You know how you had me in vitro?”_ _

__“No, I’d completely forgotten.” Sarcasm masks Naomi’s genuinely bafflement._ _

__“Hang in there with me…” Beth idly plays with the cars locks. They click open and shut, open and shut. She takes a deep breath, before diving straight into a bald faced lie. “Elle Hartmann had one of her children in vitro, also, and Art wants to know how much I know about these clinics, and rates of post-partum depression in them. I guess he thinks our experience must be universal.” Beth affects a laugh._ _

__The two of them rarely broach the topic of Beth’s conception. Just now, locked in her own car, it hits Beth how few of the details she knows. There was the fact that Naomi had been a single woman disinclined to marriage, but desperately interested in having a child. There was the fact that her Naomi’s parent had proceeded to flip their shit about test tube babies being sins against God. Each and every meeting with Beth’s grandparents led to strained silences, and furious recriminations. As if to make up for these rare interludes of dysfunction, Naomi rarely mentions the subject._ _

__“Well,” When startled, Naomi has a habit of breaking one-syllable words into three. “From what I’ve heard about this family, their situation is different. First of all, they had their kid, what, two decades after I had you? It’s a different time.”_ _

__“I know.” Beth rushes in, regretting the question already. “I know. I’m not sure why Art-”_ _

__“Nah, it’s okay. This is your job.” Beth’s mother’s voice rushes on, as though a stopgap has been tugged loose. “The company that knocked me up treated me well-enough.” The next words almost make Beth’s heart stop, though she wouldn’t be able to explain why. “They’ve always been diligent about following up on us.”_ _

__“I see.” Beth’s pills have been insinuating themselves into her bloodstream. She thinks she could run a marathon. She thinks she could explode._ _

__“But I think we’re getting away from anything related to your case.”_ _

__Beth sits up, and begins to tie her hair back. Her hands shake. “I guess so. But it’s worth knowing where I come from.”_ _

*

__That day, the Hartmanns’ van turns up by a strip mall two hours from the city. It seems to have been there for about two day, but the car is nondescript, and this particular parking lot is slow to impound vehicles._ _

__The is far from any security cameras, but when they dusted for prints, they only matched the four members of the family in question._ _

__Beth combs through the car, searching for evidence. There are no signs of blood in the car, but there’s a dreamcatcher looped around the mirror. Beth reaches out to touch it, and the beads rattle in the stagnant air. It looks like something one of the Hartmann kids probably made in elementary school art class._ _

__Art’s bagging some of the dried leaves that had made their way into the car. Because you never know, right?_ _

__Beth’s hand drops to her side. “The Hartmann boy was the age my kid would’ve been.”_ _

__Art’s head snaps up, startled. “Excuse me?” He’s giving her a look he reserves for, but his voice isn’t unkind._ _

__“Sorry.” Beth already regrets her momentary lapse in discretion. “It’s nothing. Miscarriage when I was in my late teens.”_ _

__So strange to condense that situation to a few brief sentence. At the time she hadn’t wanted to be pregnant, hadn’t even wanted to go to her mother with it (even though Naomi would have been calm, she thinks now.) The miscarriage had been an unexpected way around that. Her mother had been out of town, and Beth had spent that weekend wracked in pain and indescribable relief._ _

__She rarely thought about it after, until nine years later, when she accidentally conceived again, this time with Paul. Beth had been so preoccupied with police work, that she hadn’t noticed her period was a no show. It wasn’t until she woke up with her thighs covered in blood, and a familiar bone-deep ache, that she realized what was happening again. This time, she had spent several days unbearably ill, and Paul eventually got her to see a doctor._ _

__The gynecologist confirmed that Beth was unable to bear children. Beth hadn’t cried, exactly, but she had gone rigid and numb. She hadn’t put much thought into children, one way or another, but she hated that door slamming shut all the same._ _

__Now, Art is looking at her like, if she says anything, she’ll bolt,_ _

__“You must really want to catch this culprit, huh?”_ _

__Beth ducks her head, to scan the seats for anything she might have missed. “No. I don’t bring personal shit into work.”_ _

*

__When the letter arrives, Beth realizes how little she expected her stalker to take the bait. The envelope sits there, sad and alone, in the hollow emptiness of her P.O. box. It would be quite easy- acceptable, really- to leave it there, slam the door shut, ignore everything._ _

__So, naturally, Beth reaches in and pulls it out._ _

__It’s surprisingly large, manila-brown, and weighty in her hands. It bears an Italian stamp, but the letter was, indeed, post marked from Germany. Judging by other markings, this is a rush job, sent via express delivery. She remembers, distantly, that this is potential evidence. But she flexes her fingers in her gloves, decides she can’t do much harm dressed as she is now, and proceeds to rip open the envelope._ _

___Hey, I’ve come this far._ _ _

__First, there’s a list of all of Katja’s contact information (which makes Beth feel a bit stingy, in spite of herself.) There are pages upon pages of correspondence. Beth files through the pages like she’s turning a flipbook; scans of news articles, passports, and science reports with redacted sentences. It’s quite a lot to fake, and Beth appreciates that, at the very least, she has attracted an industrious stalker. For all the effort writer has put in, the cover letter is laconic and precise and somehow this makes Beth like the person better._ _

____Dear Beth_ ,_ _ _

____Here you go_._ _ _

____Best_ ,  
Katja_ _ _

__There’s a single print in the lower right-hand corner of the paper. The woman had dipped her index finger in ink, and pressed it into the paper. She had even traced a circle around it. If that wasn’t enough, there was a smiley face drawn to the side of it._ _

____Cute_._ _ _

*

__It’s one of those cold, ashen mornings where mist hangs over the city like a living entity. It swallows the sun, the buildings, and pedestrians in their thick winter coats. Beth hears cars long before she sees them, and she ignores how, every time someone appears in the gloom, she’s inadvertently looking for her twin, her double, _(her **clone** )._ She picks up her pace, her footfalls ringing like bullets, carrying her far from the post office. Her power walk escalates into a run, and she weaves in and around all the people she encounters. Soon, their faces melt into blurs. Her whole world shrinks this misty, blank world, and the way her heart is in her throat. _ _

__Nothing can ever touch her. Not truly._ _

__Once in the police station, the building seems obscenely bright. Her toes burn and sting, and she already hates herself for running in dress shoes. Tonight, if she goes home, she will have to slap band-aids on these cuts, while fending off Paul’s queries about how this happened (if he’s even around.)_ _

__On the way to the fingerprint station, some co-workers inform her that Raj will probably be by in about half an hour._ _

___Good, that’s just enough time.__ _

__If anyone shows up, she’ll demur, deny, deceive. She’s had to do so with her mother, she can do so with her coworkers. No matter how much she respects them. She scans the fingerprint, watching the bars of neon green light dance over the whorls of ink._ _

__The computer emits the screeching beep that indicates a match. Beth leaps to cover the speakers with her hand, to muffle the noise. A choked, humorless laugh boils up her esophagus._ _

__She sees herself on the screen._ _

___Son of a bitch, son of a **bitch**__ _

____Beth slams her knuckles into the desk, and immediately hunches over in agony. On the back of one’s hand, skin lies so very close to bone and nerves and little else._ _ _ _

____When the rest of her senses return, she’s hunched over on the desk, forearms supporting her weight. It brings her face-to-face with the computer. With her doppelganger. The woman in the picture stares back, with the sullen glower so common in poor bastards in mug shots. Thick eyeliner deepens that noticeably incisive stare, and Beth is pretty sure this person has long hair. The information next to the picture spells out a lifetime of crime. The woman has a history of petty theft, drug possession, domestic disturbances, scams… For several months, she’s been classified as a missing person, the report registered by one Siobhan Sadler._ _ _ _

____She’s not Beth, in other words, but somehow it seems like the woman isn’t Katja’s true identity, either._ _ _ _

_____And how did my fingerprints trigger a match anyway?_ _ _ _ _

____She tests the machine again and again, each time it spits out the same person._ _ _ _

____“Sarah Manning…” Beth says the name aloud, testing it. “Are you Katja?”_ _ _ _

____Somehow, she doesn’t think so._ _ _ _

*

____Art catches her slipping out of the fingerprint station, and it’s the pinnacle of worst-case scenario, even if she’s stashed Katja’s files away._ _ _ _

____“Why the hell are you over here, Childs?”_ _ _ _

____Okay, _this_ sucks almost as much as lying to her mother. _ _ _ _

____“You weren’t here yet, and the tips have dried up. So I decided to pray to the fingerprint gods. Maybe _that_ will help us tell who used that damn gun.” She doesn’t have to fake the note of hysteria in her voice. Art’s one of the few lucky ones who gets to hear that kind of thing from her._ _ _ _

____Art rolls his eyes. “Okay, whatever. Another neighbor’s cracked and turned in some surveillance tape.”_ _ _ _

_____That_ interests Beth. “What took them so long?” she asks, boiling over with annoyance at obfuscating witnesses. She clutches on to this anger, allowing it to be the anchor that it is. _ _ _ _

____“I guess their surveillance video caught their teenage son fooling around with one of his male friends at one point, and were worried about their reputation. Like I give a shit.”_ _ _ _

____“Incredible.”_ _ _ _

____Art grabs on to her elbow, and drags her back to work._ _ _ _

*

____Side-by-side they pour over this latest evidence. Instead of continuous footage, this particular camera captured images every few seconds. The images from that night played across the computer screen, changing rapidly in time with Beth’s pulse. Low-tech it might be, it still captured a full image of the car._ _ _ _

____The driver is an attractive middle-aged woman with dark hair, and a calm demeanor. She bears a striking resemblance to the mother in the family portraits. The time-stamp in the lower right corner demonstrates that she left after the rest of her family had been killed._ _ _ _

____“I guess it really was Elle Hartmann.” Beth hears Art from afar._ _ _ _

____“Goddamn it,” she says, realizing how little she wanted this to be the answer to all things._ _ _ _

____On-screen, the house begins to burn._ _ _ _

*

____The police release the information that Mrs. Hartmann is the most viable lead in this case, and that she should be approached with caution. Beth’s work phone begins to ring non-stop with sightings and leads. Some were clearly mistakes or outright misinformation. But, after diligently and dutifully sinking pins into the map, she watches as the sightings cluster around each other, and point to a journey along a particular highway._ _ _ _

____Some call Beth just to scream that a mother would never do that. Others, still, called her to say _all_ women were secretly evil. And that she was probably evil too. _ _ _ _

____It’s a high-profile case, which means the public demands answer. Beth can almost feel the impatience of the city acquiring a corporeal form, coming to bang down her door. When information dries up, when she wants to scream with impatience, she retrains her focus on Katja’s research. She investigates the veracity of everything she can get her hands on. When she’s blocked by confidentiality, she goes into Tor and then makes use of the login credentials so kindly supplied to her by Katja._ _ _ _

____All the claims line up like dominos. Not one scrap of evidence has shaken the structure of Katja’s claims. The specter of one “Project Leda” haunts everything. They ran the health clinics responsible for her and Katja’s births. They seemed to have health and academic files on a whole slew of young women._ _ _ _

____In one particularly galling moment, Beth discovers that they were the true providers of funds for Beth’s college scholarship._ _ _ _

_____(She had absolutely slaved over the essay for that thing. Her mother had sworn she could easily pay her tuition, but Beth had wanted to relieve her of that burden. She had bit her nails to the quick week after week, and winning the scholarship bad been as proud a moment as getting into college.)_ _ _ _ _

____There are passports, too. She researches the names, researches the serial numbers. Again and again, it leads her to real people, women who look exactly like her, but refracted in many different incarnations._ _ _ _

____Here’s Beth as Katja (although Katja has a later birth date, so maybe it’s Katja as Beth)._ _ _ _

____Here’s Beth as an Austrian pianist._ _ _ _

____Here’s Beth as a French businesswoman with curly hair._ _ _ _

____Here’s Beth a half a dozen times, as everyone _but_ Beth._ _ _ _

____No matter how much information she takes in, she never encounters a hint of the girl in the mugs hot._ _ _ _

*

____Hello, Siobhan Slader speaking.”_ _ _ _

_____Hm. Interesting Irish accent, there.__ _ _ _

____“Hello, I’m Detective... Danielle Obinger.” The false name slides past Beth’s lips before she can give it much thought._ _ _ _

____“Is there something wrong? Why aren’t you here in person?” The woman is no fool, that’s for sure._ _ _ _

____Beth hears a noise in the background. Like someone’s dumping legos onto a carpeted ground. There’s plastic clicking together, and then a series muddled thumps._ _ _ _

____“I’m just calling to introduce myself. I’m new on the cold case unit, and your foster daughter’s file came across my desk today.” And it’s kind of true, in a matter of speaking._ _ _ _

____“Has she done something, recently?” The woman’s voice is crisp, pissed off. But there’s also a world of sadness just below the surface. Beth’s heard it before in the parents of missing children._ _ _ _

____“No, ma’am.” Beth idly circles the foster mother’s name on her printed copy of Sarah’s missing person report. “I’m just trying to help find her.”_ _ _ _

____“Well, she’s not dead if that’s what you’re wondering,” Ms. Slader replies, and Beth’s pen makes a gash in the paper. “She’s probably still in New York City, but she messages me every so often about Kira, her daughter.”_ _ _ _

_____(Her daughter. **Her daughter?** ) __ _ _ _

_____Beth writes the name of Sarah’s kid in the margins of the mug shot._ _ _ _ _

_____“I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am. But it’s good to know she’s alive and well.”_ _ _ _ _

_____There’s more noise in the background of Ms. Slader’s call; the high-pitched voice of a young child. Siobhan covers the speaker with her hand, but Beth can still make out a word here and there. Warmth and stern affection suffuse every syllable. If that’s Kira, the kid’s definitely loved._ _ _ _ _

_____There’s a crackling sound, and the Mrs. Slader is back on the line. When she speaks again, there’s something newly kind about her. “It’s alright. Thank you for calling. It’s nice to know that we haven’t been forgotten.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Just doing my job.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Beth can barely choke the words out._ _ _ _ _

*

_____Sarah is a dead end, for now. Beth isn’t about to write her off, but it’s time to pursue new leads, new angles. Across the pond, Katja has a whole _network_ of clones going on, and Beth is distantly aware she may be avoiding calling her back out of some kind of competitive jealousy. _ _ _ _ _

_____She arrives at the police station early, once again, this time to avail herself of their new facial recognition software. It provides potential matches on forensic sketches, surely it could do the same with a genuine photo._ _ _ _ _

_____In record time the machines proves to be more complicated that the finger print reader. It throws up an error message when Beth initially sets the entirety of North America as the requested parameter. She decides to dial it back, only request regions she could travel to in a reasonable amount of time. With that and mind, she requests the machine to comb through drivers licenses in Canada and the northernmost sections of the United States._ _ _ _ _

_____Although it takes an agonizingly long time, it also produces results._ _ _ _ _

_____Two names, two pictures. Cosima Niehaus is from the States, but Alison Hendrix lives in a suburb Beth could reach in half an hour. An hour tops, if the traffic is bad._ _ _ _ _

_____Their photos are DMV bland and unflattering, but the overly bright lights illuminate their similarities to Beth_ _ _ _ _

_____Art surfaces mere minutes later, and they soon haul in the Hartmanns’ coworkers for questioning._ _ _ _ _

_____When Beth is actively engaged in the investigation, she shoves the clone _mess_ into a separate compartment of her brain. But it’s always there, like a sharp pebble in her shoe. Like a bomb five seconds from going off._ _ _ _ _

_____ _ _ _

_____“Let’s get the media to say we think she’s staying in the town where we found the car.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“What, get her to let down her guard wherever she actually is?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Precisely.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Sometimes I like the way you think, Childs.”_ _ _ _ _

*

_____Beth gets sent home, just for an hour or two. Paul doesn’t appear to be around. Her high heels clack on their hardwood floor, and Beth realizes she rarely sees her own home by the light of day. She’s typically off to work before dawn, and then stumbling back close to midnight._ _ _ _ _

_____Beth sits down at the kitchen table, and plugs a memory card into her computer. Her eyes scour pictures (gathered from facebook, once again) of Alison and Cosima. Her muted reflection glows in the computer screen, as though she’s put a picture of herself in this research file._ _ _ _ _

_____Next order of business; skype call with Katja._ _ _ _ _

_____When she sends in the request for a video chat, Katja picks up immediately, as though she’s been waiting for this call her whole life._ _ _ _ _

_____“Hey there, Beth.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Despite having her clones images burned into her retinas, nothing quite compares her for the cognitive dissonance of seeing Katja moving and talking._ _ _ _ _

_____It makes her want this meeting to be short, and to the point._ _ _ _ _

_____“Katja.” She nods. “I think I have discovered two more of us. I’ll send you the information in a zip file.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Wait, wait, wait.” Katja’s hair is even brighter here than in pictures. “So you believe me?”_ _ _ _ _

_____Beth hits send on the email in question. “Would I be talking to you this way if I didn’t?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Um. I guess not.” Soon there’s a beeping sound indicates a new email, and the woman busies herself with looking at it. “Alison Hendrix and Cosima Niehaus, huh?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“I think they’re Child A and Child C in the files,” Beth says, directing the conversation. “I’m going to try to talk to Alison once Art and I solve this case.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Good.” Katja begins to bite one of her nails. “Although be careful. It never quite goes the way you expect it to go.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Oh come on,” Beth interrupts, weirdly offended. "All I did was hang up on you.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Yes, you were the easiest to convince by far.”_ _ _ _ _

_____And then, in unexpected moment of ceasefire, Beth and Katja start to laugh._ _ _ _ _

_____The key turns in the door. Beth curses and exists out of skype._ _ _ _ _

_____When Paul turns the corner into the kitchen, he starts like he’s come across a ghost._ _ _ _ _

_____“Whoa. Hi?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Art sent me home so I could get some sleep,” Beth says, a bit too quickly._ _ _ _ _

_____Paul tilts his head slightly. “Doing a good job of it.” He gestures vaguely towards her computer._ _ _ _ _

_____“You know me.” Her tired sigh isn’t remotely fake. “Always working, always thinking.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“No classical music today?”_ _ _ _ _

______Oh, fuck_. On the rare occasions when she did work from home, Beth played orchestral music non-stop. Somehow, songs with vocals were far distracting, as was anything electronic. Even electric guitars had a tendency to break her concentration. Though silence could be the worst of all. _ _ _ _ _

_____“I just got here,” she explained._ _ _ _ _

_____“I guess I’ll make you coffee,” Paul offers, curiosity evidently satisfied._ _ _ _ _

_____Part of Beth wonders why _Paul_ is also home early, but she keeps that to herself. _ _ _ _ _

*

_____Beth resolves to buy a second phone for her next conversation with Katja._ _ _ _ _

*

_____Elle Hartmann sightings continue to pour in, centering around a town four hours away. Deciding that enough’s enough, Beth and Art travel out to the area to scope it out._ _ _ _ _

_____Within hours, they find her walking away from a motel. She’s got a hoodie over head, and sunglasses obscuring her face, but it’s definitely her. After conferring quietly, Beth and Art come to a decision; despite wanting to arrest her immediately, they’d rather be extra cautious. They tail her for two days, get a feel for her schedule. Around 10:00 pm, she returns to the motel and doesn’t come out again. Each morning she resurfaces around 8._ _ _ _ _

_____Beth offers to spend nights in the motel in order to scope the place out. Just in case there’s some sort of chase or confrontation. She’s able to pay for her room with cash only (the guy at the desk prefers it that way, actually), and within an hour she knows the place like the back of her hand._ _ _ _ _

*

_____Beth rests on a scratchy comforter, clad in yoga pants and socks, trying to avoid skin contact in any way. She has a high tolerance for autopsy photos, blood drenched crime scenes, and other things that don’t make for great dinner conversation, but cheap, no-tell motels freak her out. Each room has probably seen its fair share of desperation and deceit. Each bed has seen its fair share of violence, love, and guilt. And when she’s alone like this- her tightly wound work bun uncoiling and slinking to the nape of her neck- it’s as though all the contradictory emotions are seeping into her skin._ _ _ _ _

_____She goes to sit in a nearby chair. She tugs at the ratty curtains, and they jangle and screech. The resulting view is of the building’s parking lot and little else. The street lamps cast a greenish glow over everything, and if she squints it’s easy to imagine she’s at the bottom of the ocean. The tar is glossy from melting patches of snow._ _ _ _ _

_____When Beth speed-dials Paul, not really expecting him to answer._ _ _ _ _

_____“Hey there,” she says._ _ _ _ _

_____“Beth. You doing okay out there?”_ _ _ _ _

______There are, like, six other versions of me, and I’m chasing someone who killed and burned her children.__ _ _ _ _

_____Beth bites down on her lip._ _ _ _ _

_____“It’s cloudy right now,” she says, watches slivers of moonlight peaking out. It gives her a flash of a memory; calling her college girlfriend when they were both separate for the summer. Giggling over being able to see the same moon in the same sky, even though they were miles apart._ _ _ _ _

_____She thinks about trying to same thing with Paul, but then discards the idea. Romance was as easy as breathing when she was a kid, but now she’s out of practice._ _ _ _ _

_____Besides, memories cannot be copied or repeated. They have histories and wills of their own._ _ _ _ _

_____“Beth…” She can sense a question on the tip of his tongue. She cocks her head, trying to figure it out. “Be careful tomorrow. Whatever you end up doing.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“I usually am.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“’Usually?’”_ _ _ _ _

_____Beth imagines him there in the kitchen, smiling a bit. And at once it’s enough for her._ _ _ _ _

_____“Night, love.”_ _ _ _ _

_____When she hears his reply in kind, she turns off the phone._ _ _ _ _

_____For another half hour, she folds her knees to her chest, looks out into the empty streets. Every so often a pedestrian meanders on past, drunk and alone._ _ _ _ _

_____When she reaches for her burner phone, it doesn’t take long for her to flip through her contacts list. She has a single name on it._ _ _ _ _

_____“Hello Beth.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Beth is staring at herself in the mirror. She watches as her eyebrows fly up. “How did you know it’s me?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“American number, not already in my phone.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Oh, okay.” She fishes for her hair tie, and tugs until it’s out. Her hair tumbles down over her cold shoulders. “I didn’t mean for us to be interrupted last time.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“The information you sent was useful.”_ _ _ _ _

______And yet I haven’t told you all of it.__ _ _ _ _

_____Beth hoards the name Sarah Manning, deep within her heart. Katja knows so much, while Beth is still such a newcomer. Sarah has to be Beth’s proverbial gun on the wall, or insurance for a future date._ _ _ _ _

_____Katja adds; “I am so happy you believe me. Believe us.”  
“It’s no skin off my nose. You sent me hard evidence, and it checked out. I looked up all of you, and you _seem_ to be real.” _ _ _ _ _

_____“’ _Seem…_ to be real,’” Katja echoes, a bit wry. _ _ _ _ _

_____“You know what I mean.” Beth paces from one end of the room to the other. It isn’t a long journey. “How did you find about all of this, though. I couldn’t find a hint of that in the records.”_ _ _ _ _

_____The click of a lighter echoes through the phone’s speaker. It goes off again and again, reminiscent of Beth’s habit of locking and unlocking her car when she is lost in thought._ _ _ _ _

_____“For the past few years I have been heavily involved with an offshoot of Anonymous. You know who they-”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Yeah, yeah, you encourage everyone to go be vigilantes. You’re a real thorn in my side.” Whenever that happens, their office is flooded with demanding emails. Prosecute this person _now, now, now_. _ _ _ _ _

_____“Ouch, I am offended.” Judging by the inward breath that follows, Katja seems to have made up her mind, and lit a cigarette or joint or whatever it is that she has._ _ _ _ _

_____“This is how you found out about the clones?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Mmm, no.” There’s the hint of a waver in that denial. “My father actually told me.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“How did that work?” Beth pictures the files in her mind. From the mishmash of redacted information, she had gleaned that most of the clones came to term in surrogate mothers. Their adoptive parents were generally kept in the dark. Although… “Wait, there was a gap in information about you.” From birth to about the age of four, if Beth recalls correctly. And her birth mother appears to have kept her._ _ _ _ _

_____“That would be because my mother sensed that something wasn’t right. And from what she told me she wasn’t the only one.” Katja couches her sentences between long pauses. It’s the speech pattern of someone speaking an unwanted, cancerous truth. “She left her home in Turkey- where they impregnated her- and emigrated to Germany. There she had some relatives who were willing to help her hide out. After a while, she stopped worrying. She didn’t think anyone was looking for her anymore.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Another pause, as though Katja wishes the fairy tale had ended there; a mother and her daughter, free from danger, loved and safe in a new country._ _ _ _ _

_____“But then?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“My mother married a German man, and he adopted me. We were a happy enough family. A couple months ago he passed away from cancer.” Now her words flow fast, relentless. “He confessed that Leda sent him to meet my mother. He was supposed to monitor us all that time.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Holy fuck.” Beth collapses back into the chair, boneless, weary._ _ _ _ _

_____“What is crazy is he actually begged my mother for forgiveness. He claimed he’d fallen in love with her genuinely.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Beth doesn’t ask how the story ends._ _ _ _ _

_____“Is this common? Monitoring?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Ja. _Yes_. We all have them, I am sure.” Another inhalation, as Katja seems to return to her cigarette. “Perhaps not me, lately. I’ve avoided making new friends since his death. Unless you count all of us clones.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Beth has her head resting on her hand, mind boiling over. Unlike Katja or Sarah, Leda’s never lost sight of her. She’s seen it over and over again in the files. She won’t hold her breath that they will have forgotten so assign a monitor to her._ _ _ _ _

_____She whimpers into her palm, ever so quietly, stopping as soon as she starts._ _ _ _ _

_____“You’re trying to figure out who it is, aren’t you?” Katja doesn’t bother elaborating._ _ _ _ _

_____“I think I need to hang up, Katja.” The room’s air conditioner jolts awake, clattering and hissing. Beth watches goosebumps spread over the skin of her arm._ _ _ _ _

_____“Understood. You’ll keep in touch?” There’s something forlorn and fragile about how Katja frames the question. She’s worlds away from being a threatening, deranged voice on the other end of the line. Maybe this is how she’s always been this lonely._ _ _ _ _

_____“Of course, of course. But call _this_ number from now on. Not the other one.”_ _ _ _ _

*

_____Just outside the motel, Mrs. Hartmann loses her fight against the police._ _ _ _ _

_____“Freeze!” Art’s voice shatters the routine noise of this less-traveled city road._ _ _ _ _

_____“Down on the ground, hands behind your head.” Beth shouts, gun drawn._ _ _ _ _

_____Alice Hartmann doesn’t comply. Not immediately. She’s shaking, body tensed to run, but there’s something in her eyes that’s elated. Excited. And Beth is sure she’ll see this expression in nightmare to come._ _ _ _ _

_____Finally Elle drops, as though all her strings had been cut._ _ _ _ _

_____When Beth and Art drive her back to the station, she cries almost the entire way._ _ _ _ _

*

_____Skilled cops tend to derive interrogation methods that follow a subtle, carefully defined blueprint. Over the past year, Beth and Art have worked out their own, carefully cultivated schematic. Sometimes they work together, sometimes only one cop is in the room. When they work in concert they are almost always successful._ _ _ _ _

_____It’s during one of her solitary sessions that Beth asks the question that’s haunted her this whole damn case._ _ _ _ _

_____“Okay, so you wanted to get away from it all. Great. Why didn’t you just run away? What necessitated _killing your whole family_?” Her hands slam down._ _ _ _ _

_____Beth can feel Art glaring holes into the back of her skull. Not for the display of aggression, but because it's out of character._ _ _ _ _

_____“My whole family?” The cuffs rattle around Mrs. Hartmann’s wrists. She's attractive, in control, and utterly distant. “I believe my parents and siblings are still alive.”_ _ _ _ _

_____For Beth, this was like throwing herself against a brick wall. “Wow, remarkable restraint there.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Elle Hartmann stares down at the table._ _ _ _ _

_____“I’m not congratulating you on the fire, since that was botched to hell and back. You left lots of evidence for us.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“It wasn’t just to destroy evidence.” Elle Hartmann whispers._ _ _ _ _

_____“Oh?” Beth leans back in her chair. “Enlighten me.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“I just wanted _everything_ from that life gone. I couldn't leave the kids with my husband. He has- had no idea what he's doing." The woman shrugs a bit, like she's discussing buying groceries. "That’s why I couldn’t just run away. I had to destroy everything. That’s why I set the fire.” _ _ _ _ _

_____After this, Mrs. Hartmann ceases to answer questions, and Beth runs out of interest in _her_. There's no mystery here at all, she realizes, there's only abusive tendencies taken to an extreme. Beth's done her duty. Let the courts and corrections handle Elle from now on._ _ _ _ _

*

_____Soon after news of the confession hits the news, Paul stops by her workplace even though it’s during his own office hours._ _ _ _ _

______You’re becoming prone to skipping work, huh?__ _ _ _ _

_____He doesn’t hug her, since this is a workplace, but he smiles like he wants to do so._ _ _ _ _

_____“Congratulations,” he says._ _ _ _ _

_____Beth looks up at him. Her mind replays their short, but eventful history together. Before, their unusual but perfect connection had seemed like a minor miracle. Now, it’s another puzzle to be solved._ _ _ _ _

_____“Won’t bring those kids back,” she says, before she can stop herself._ _ _ _ _

_____Paul’s eyes go blank, like he can’t believe what he’s hearing._ _ _ _ _

_____“I’m sorry. It’s been a long week.”_ _ _ _ _

_____He nods, implicitly accepting her apology. All the same, he soon books it out of there, and Beth can’t blame him._ _ _ _ _

_____Later, she and Art clink two together two coffee-filled styrofoam cups in a toast to one another. It’s a quiet ode to a job well done._ _ _ _ _

*

_____The next day, she decides to give Katja a call. She heads out to a jogging trail in an isolated area. In the spring, when the snows melt, the area coughs up flowers and once hidden bodies._ _ _ _ _

_____“Oh god, Beth.” There’s a sob lurking in Katja’s voice._ _ _ _ _

_____“No need to get all excited.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Someone shot Janika yesterday!” Katja all but screams it into the phone. “She’s dead.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Beth rubs her ear, swallowing hard. She thinks she can guess the reason behind Katja’s hysteria. It’s not just grief. “Do you know why?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“No, but-”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Then don’t rule _anything_ out.” Beth hears someone running up the trail. She leans against a tree. Extends her legs in the stretches she does before running. Makes sure she can reach her concealed pepper spray. “It could be someone completely unrelated to our… situation. Though don’t take unnecessary chances.” _ _ _ _ _

_____“So you’re saying to keep an open mind, but also be sure to board up my windows and always lock my door.” Some people responded well to calmness, and Katja was one of those sorts._ _ _ _ _

_____“You should be locking your door anyway.”_ _ _ _ _

*

_____Beth begins to follow Alison Hendrix. She feels a twinge of guilt trailing someone the way she would a criminal, but not guilty enough to desist._ _ _ _ _

_____Alison has one of the busiest existences that Beth has ever seen. Gym in the morning, carpools to the elementary school, a myriad of social clubs, frequent visits to one of her neighborhood friends, and excursions to the grocery and crafts store. Just for starters. During nights she updates her facebook with pictures of her kids, and thoughts on a belated watch through of Gossip Girl. She’s so well integrated into a specific life, that Beth postpones their inevitable meeting._ _ _ _ _

_____In the end, Alison is the one who forces her hand._ _ _ _ _

_____Beth is waiting for her to come out of the grocery store, when she hears someone pounding on her own window._ _ _ _ _

_____“Hey, you effing _stalker_. Do you think I haven’t noticed you following me around? I’ve had enough. I’m going to call the police.” _ _ _ _ _

_____Beth rolls down the window, and Alison screams. A crate of eggs falls out of the eco-friendly bag, crashing down onto the parking lot concrete._ _ _ _ _

_____“You’re in luck. I _am_ the police..” _ _ _ _ _

*

_____Beth doesn’t want to go home (definitely doesn’t want to see Paul) and with a potential assassin running around, Alison deserves answers._ _ _ _ _

_____Beth’s iPod filters Prokofiev through her car’s speakers. She pulls Katja’s information from the glove compartment, handing it to Alison. The woman flips through the pages, evidently reading each and every line. Her breath seems to increase in tempo, until Beth begins to worry she’s having a heart attack attack._ _ _ _ _

_____“Are you alright?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“How could any of this be ‘alright?’” Alison’s arms flail, and the papers snap._ _ _ _ _

_____Beth looks up to her rearview mirror, and their eyes meet in its reflection. “Okay, but are you dying?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“What?" Alison’s voice is uncertain, but the unexpected response was enough to stem her monologue. "No."_ _ _ _ _

_____“Then we still have the chance to come out of this okay.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Alison puffs out her cheeks, and then lets out a sigh. “I have a condition for you.”_ _ _ _ _

______I wasn’t aware we were bargaining.__ _ _ _ _

_____Beth decides to let it slide anyway._ _ _ _ _

_____“And what is that?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“I bought a gun, recently. The Hartmann murders scared the crap out of me.” She played with the straps on her purse. “My husband kept reminding me that that was an issue within that particular family. But suddenly having mace spray wasn’t enough, you know? Except I don’t know how to use this gun that I went through so much effort to buy.”_ _ _ _ _

_____The question remains unspoken._ _ _ _ _

_____“I’ll text you the address of a discreet shooting range,” Beth says. Because, hey, why not. If they’re being hunted, she might as well help her cones fight back. “Be there at 1 pm tomorrow. I know you’ll be free.”_ _ _ _ _

_____For a second Alison looks like she wants to curse her out- yet again- for following her. Instead she just folds her arms, and sinks down in the passenger chair._ _ _ _ _

_____“Okay. I’ll be there.”_ _ _ _ _

*

_____**Text to Katja:** Made contact with Alison. She’s in shock, but it went well._ _ _ _ _

_____**Text to Beth:** Good. Things are quiet here but I’m still scared……_ _ _ _ _

_____**Text to Katja:** If you suspect a crime start keeping track of evidence. I'm here for you._ _ _ _ _

_____**Text to Beth:** I will do that. Thank you._ _ _ _ _

*

_____The place is as desolate as Beth remembers. Unkempt grass for acres and acres, battered targets, and an empty shack._ _ _ _ _

_____“Not quite a shooting gallery.” To her credit, Alison is dressed perfectly for the outdoors, and she even has earmuffs. Sometimes she looks at her gun like it’s offended her personally, but she’s taking enterprise seriously all the same._ _ _ _ _

_____“Sorry, I’m a cheap date.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Alison’s jaw drops._ _ _ _ _

_____“Never mind. Show me how you think you think you should hold a gun just before you shoot it.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Alison’s stance isn’t perfect, but even from the beginning she shows potential. Beth circles her, making adjustments to Alison’s stance where necessary. She went out and got a Walther- Beth’s preferred gun- which will make it easier to train Alison._ _ _ _ _

______(When she touches Alison, she expects her skin to crawl. After all, it’s her exact DNA in another body. But Alison feels like someone completely new beneath her fingers.)_ _ _ _ _ _

_____“Now shoot the target.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“What?” Alison’s head whips around._ _ _ _ _

_____“Shoot the target. Get the bulls-eye if you can.”_ _ _ _ _

_____“But I-”_ _ _ _ _

_____“You’ll have to pull that trigger eventually. Why not now?”_ _ _ _ _

_____“Why not?” Alison echoes, closing one eye to better focus on her target. A heartbeat later, her fingers contract, the gun roars, and Alison topples back._ _ _ _ _

_____“Ack, sorry, I should have warned you about recoil.”_ _ _ _ _

_____Alison isn’t listening. Instead, she actually starts cheering as she clambers back to her feet. “I did it, I did. Not quite the bulls-eye, but close!”_ _ _ _ _

_____Beth’s cheeks hurt, and she realizes she’s grinning. This is so much better than secrets, spies, and scientific malpractice. Guns, bullets, and a clear shot to the target… what more could anyone ask for?_ _ _ _ _

_____She’s giddy with the closest approximation to happiness she’s felt in some time. “Looks like skill with guns is something that runs in the family.”_ _ _ _ _

_____It’s precisely the wrong thing to say. Alison’s face crumples, and her lips thin out into two white lines in a flushed pink face._ _ _ _ _

______So that’s what I look like when I am sad _. Beth can’t recall the last time she’s cried, herself, but she knows she avoids mirrors each time it happens.___ _ _ _ _

_______“Alison?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Her companion’s shoulders shake and shake with unconcealed self-loathing. Alison is so small, so brightly attired, and so out of place in this field of yellowed-out grass, and barren ground. Nothing but the most baffling kind of artificiality could have set this encounter into motion, and Alison seems to wear that knowledge like a death sentence._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Perhaps, then, it’s angry bewilderment that guides Alison’s arm. Perhaps that’s how Beth finds herself staring down the business end of a gun._ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Well, shit. Stupid, stupid, stupid._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Beth allows herself a sliver of time to berate herself. Okay, Alison is type A (type A to the _bone_ ), reeling from shock, and currently in possession of a firearm. There was really only one route for this to go, in the end. _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______But she meant what she told Alison earlier: this doesn’t have to end in tragedy._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Beth draws frigid winter air into her lungs, and switches gears. If Alison wants to play this way, Beth can oblige._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Alison,” she says, initiating eye contact over the shaking barrel of a gun. During such moments, everything balances on reaching the person with the weapon. One false move could earn you a bullet in the brain. “What the hell are you doing?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“This is all so wrong, everything about this. How can we all exist? How did this happen? How did this happen to someone like _me_.” Alison has a habit of spewing words until lack of oxygen stays her speech. “I don’t deserve this. I hate surprises, I hate that I need a gun, I hate that nothing is ever easy for me _ever_.” _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______A hopeless refrain saturates each syllable: _I’m terrified and I’m angry._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“You’re already breaking the law, Alison. Pointing a gun at someone is an indictable offense.” Her words are steely, resolute, but Beth modulates her voice a bit. Allows slights hints of warmth and compassion to slip through the cracks, and give her opponent something to reach towards. Good cop/bad cop all in one persona._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Alison is facing towards the sun, and her pupils are two shrunken pinpricks. “You can’t be serious.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Cross my heart.” Beth even makes the gesture over her chest, even though she hasn’t done it since grade school. Muscle memory is incredible, really. “Five years, if I decide to press charges.” That’s the maximum, but she keeps the information to herself. “Do you really want to miss out on seeing your kids’ childhoods? Do you really want to come out of prison and be greeted by two teens you barely know?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______It’s a low blow, using children as leverage. It works though, damn near every time. The gun rattles harder, but Alison’s finger is no longer on the lever._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Gemma would just be a preteen.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Ah, so Alison is doing the math. Picturing a future she’d rather avoid. “So you say.” Beth takes one experimental step forward. Spreads her arms out, and not up; a martyr, maybe, but never a victim. Alison doesn’t move. She scarcely seems to _breathe_ It’s a risky tactic, on Beth’s part, but she’s been in the interrogation room and she knows when someone’s about to fold._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Alison holds her free hand in front of her face as though trying to make a shield. The fingers then fold into a fist._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Alison is the type to follow through with threats, even if she does so in a sideways, roundabout form. In this case, she holds the gun up, sends a bullet up into cloudy sky, then collapses to her knees. The bang echoes across the field, ringing in Beth’s eardrums long after the fact. And soon, Beth hears what her sobs sound like in the body of another person._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______She waits until Alison’s crying peters out, and then Beth kneels down across from her._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Don’t do that. You’re going to get mud all over yourself,” Alison says, her voice quavering. It’s the closest Beth will get to an apology, and she’s okay with that._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______With infinite tenderness, she pries the gun from Alison’s fingers._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“I will let all that slide for now.” Beth notices, distantly, how she calm she feels with a gun in her hand. How powerful. Allison’s episode just now is perfectly understandable, really. “Because I understand what you’re going through. Don’t do it again, though. Are we clear?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Alison’s earmuffs rest around her neck, as pale and as pink as her headband, vest, and her cheeks. She raises her red, red eyes to meet Beth’s. And she gives her a tear-soaked smile. It’s the kind of dogged bravery that Beth wants to guard. Maybe because it’s also the kind of bravery the world loves to smash to pieces._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Yes, absolutely. It won’t happen again.” Alison lets out a laugh that sounds a bit like a hiccup. “We’re kind of stuck with each other. But if I had to meet my cl-… my genetic identical, you’re probably the best of all possibilities, to be honest.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Beth senses that it’s the kind of moment when others might hug. Instead, she watches their shadows, and the way they intertwine on the ground._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Yeah. We have to be a team for now.” It feels good, so she repeats it. “We’re a team.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

*

_______Beth and Paul maintain their lifestyle of parallel companionship, their mini-spat long forgotten. But sometimes Beth gets stuck thinking about how he’s the one who’s alone with her more than anything. No one else could be better situated to be a monitor. She’s more inclined to notice all the moments- and there are many- when he looks bored out of his skull. Bored with _her_ in particular._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Anything interesting happen today?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Once, Beth would have told him that, well, today she nearly got a bullet to the brain._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Instead she just shrugs. “No, things are finally quiet again. Thank god.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

*

_______After another practice at the shooting range, Alison guides their next step._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Maybe we should contact this Cosima person. I don’t like how the European clones all have each other, but we’re all alone out here.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Don’t like it just being a few of us, huh?” It was her exact reason for taking the step to seek out Alison, but, given the debacle that occurred the last time she pointed out their similarity, she’s not going to make that connection._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______Alison bristles. “I bet you didn’t like being just _one_.” _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“No. No I didn’t.” She hands the phone to Alison. “I have Cosima in my contacts list, if you’re serious about this. Do you want to do the honors?”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______With shaking hands, Alison presses the appropriate buttons and puts the phone on speaker. Two rings, and then someone picks up._ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Hello?” The voice on the other end is painfully familiar, and undeniably different all at once. “I don’t usually answer spam calls but today I’m feeling generous.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _

_______“Cosima… Cosima we have so much to tell you.”_ _ _ _ _ _ _


End file.
